Chains of Command
by Ember Nickel
Summary: Five orders Mon Mothma gave, and one she didn't. [Pre-Rogue One AU; May the 4th 2018 treat for Apricot.]


"Captain," Mon asks, "what did you bring?"

Cassian nods. "He's a who, not a what."

"Prisoner? Defector? Hostage?"

"Um, none of the above, exactly," Cassian admits. "His name is K-2SO. He was Imperial, but I—upgraded him."

"I see," says Mon, seeing nothing of the kind.

"He's not a blind slave, he can choose his own way. He gave it some thought, uh, we were out in a nebula with not much else to do, and figured he might as well come back with us."

"Might as well," Mon repeats. "And now that he's found the location of our base, you're convinced he'll stay? Because if he tries to leave—"

"If you are concerned about an attack on this location," interrupts the robot, "I estimate a 72% chance the entire deployment could evacuate before Imperial forces arrive, considering your paltry numbers."

"Kay," says Cassian, "this is Mon Mothma, my—commanding officer."

It—he?—extends a metallic arm, and Mon has no choice but to take it. "I have been briefed on your superior leadership," K-2SO intones.

"That's one word for it," Cassian mutters under his breath, glancing around to see who else is there.

Is Cassian berating the Alliance's limited capacities behind her back, or divulging...less battle-sensitive material to any droid in the vicinity? She can't complain; he's returned, safely, and maybe brought them another resource in the bargain.

"Cassian—" She checks herself, reluctantly, at his stern face. "Kay, please report to General Draven for a debriefing. If you're going to look around, we need to know everything you know."

"I have transmitted this information to the captain," K-2 says, "but I will certainly do as you say." He turns and paces off on long legs, where Cassian indicates.

"I'm sorry," Cassian says then, making his way over to her.

"Don't apologize," says Mon. "It's not often we get to end the day with more people than we started with."

He gives a faint smile, and she makes a note to look into ensuring the droid can partner with him in the future. It would be helpful for everyone if K-2SO can get into a familiar routine. And if, in spite of the tremendous odds, Cassian has found someone else in the galaxy to trust, perhaps the robot can go where she can't.

* * *

Cassian's gone with Saw's rebels almost a month longer than expected, even measured by their new base's slow, watery moon. After he returns, it's K-2 who volunteers for the summary of strategic information. Mon is impressed; when not succumbing to fatalism, he has the ability to get quickly to the point—explosives detonated, Imperial ships destroyed, supplies liberated—without wasting time.

Cassian, for his part, sleeps fitfully. After the discomforts of hyperspace and crude barracks, even a warm bed feels wrong.

It's a few nights, between paperwork and health screenings and more layers of security clearance than a foundering operation like the Alliance really needs, before they can get an evening together. "Thank you," says Mon. It's not enough, but it's a start.

Cassian deliberates before choosing his reply. After wearing so many masks, his true accent seems unfamiliar on his lips. "In many ways, I appreciated it."

"Well," says Mon, trying to sound light, "we'll keep all your other identities in mind if we need someone out there again."

"It reminded me that...there are things even I have not done. Things I choose not to do. And if I find the Alliance can no longer be my home...the galaxy is large."

"As long as I draw breath," she says, "you will have a home here."

Neither of them admit what the vow means. She has perhaps a couple decades on him, but her career draws her to the hollow chambers of the Senate, while he risks his life time and again. It's hard to imagine her outliving him.

 _Someday_ , she thinks. _When we're free, and I die of old age after criticizing whippersnappers in a legislature with teeth._

"Is there anything K-2 won't think to share?" she asks. "Unconfirmed speculation? Your instincts serve you well."

"My contact mentioned a monster that reads prisoners' thoughts and drives them mad," he laughs. "We tend to disbelieve it, but perhaps she was scared the first time seeing Gerrera's new augmentations."

She lets herself smile. "Very good. Do you want to rest here tonight? I'm afraid it's no guarantee of sound sleep, but at least I'll be here."

Cassian snorts. "People will talk."

"With the schedules they keep? Antilles is snoring on Mon Calamari time still, Pao's biological clock was on Felucia last I checked, and don't even ask me about Darklighter and his desert training. You'll be lucky if anyone sees you at breakfast."

"Well," says Cassian, "I'm not tired." He raises a hand to her chin, and before she can question, kisses her quietly. It's always been like that, him taking the lead when she doesn't dare move, afraid it will be seen an impropriety of her rank, afraid the galaxy will come crashing down around them.

"It was a long stint," he says, "having to bunk in K-2's ship."

"Long battles take a toll," she replies, "even the silent ones. Sleep."

He seems like he's about to protest, but gives a nod. There will be time for other things, in the morning.

* * *

The Mon Calamari fleet returns from a skirmish with many injuries, some festering, and Mon Mothma fears that the Alliance's diversity may prove to be a double-bladed saber. Their variety of opinions makes them strong, she has always attested; sentients used to plumbing an ocean world's depths see three-dimensional space battles differently from her. Species plagued by infighting have more patience for protracted campaigns than unified cultures. And of course, Core Worlders' faith in democracy is tempered by the skeptics of the Outer Rim, even the Separatists who have come around.

Yet while she would never echo the Empire's love of homogeneity, sometimes she privately concedes they have a point. The Rebellion's medical facilities are too rudimentary to competently handle the nuances of every species, and looking up how best to fight Raddus' infection requires careful filtering of useless holoweb search results, while ignoring his protests that he's just fine and can go back to his ship.

Mon leaves that for trained personnel, and instead, reports to the Basement in her off hours. The underground chambers, half rec room and half intercultural exchange, itself stems from the wide-ranging interests of the Alliance. In one corner, Senator Pamlo might do casework while Merrick spars with a punching bag. Pao swims in an adjacent pool, while individuals from species with different breathing optima take turns signing up for the cot in an enclosure whose gasses they can modulate.

In the back, a quadruped chants laments for the fallen. Mon joins her, trying to meditate. Of course, she has no consciousness of the Force that is said to permeate the galaxy. But even in the days of the democratic Senate she has found that focusing her mind can her for strenuous days ahead, to say nothing of dealing with ill-tempered colleagues.

Her fears for Raddus, for her squabbling fellows, take prominence and then recede as she offers them up to whatever powers shift the stars. In her contemplation, she doesn't notice Cassian until he's a few steps behind her.

"There you are!" he says. "I checked the hospital bay, when you weren't in your office I got worried—"

"Quiet," says Mon. She knows he has little time for faith—what good has the Force ever done him?—and she prefers to join the rank and file below ground rather than meditate when they're alone.

Cassian backs away, flipping on a holovid across the room and plugging in a headset rather than leave entirely. It takes her a long time to become settled again, but she waits anyway, willing a blessing towards Cassian and his stubbornness as well.

Finally, she stands and walks back towards the stairs, Cassian following quickly. "You're not going to finish that?" she teases. "How will you ever know if the Ewok queen avenges her sister?"

"I'll make an educated guess," he says. "My gut is usually good enough."

"If you want to find me," she says once they've reemerged into the main barracks, "I'll be in my room in time. And much more...talkative."

"You don't need to change," he blurts.

"Come again?" If he's making some remark about her clothing, well, that's all well and good, but his flustered anxiety doesn't give that impression.

"Just because I—don't like it—doesn't mean you need to hide your worship, or whatever it is that you do down there. I like you for who _you_ are."

"It's good to remember that not everyone has the luxury of trust."

"Sure we do," says Cassian. "Not in some mystical gravity, but even Imperials trust—blindly—that their system is worth it. Me, I trust something better." He pauses. "And I trust you."

And if the Alliance is broad enough that a resolute child from the far reaches of the galaxy could grow into the agent before her, she decides again that their strains are worth it.

* * *

Raddus' recovery isn't as fast as anyone would like, but he gradually regains his strength. What's more, his extended family comes from Mon Cala to fuss over him and offer traditional maritime remedies. Mon Mothma signs off on the visit without asking too many questions; Raddus will do the dutiful work of getting clearance for them, very few Mon Calamari are friends of the Empire no matter who their uncle is, and it will be pleasant for the base to have some civilian optimism lifting its spirits.

She did not realize quite how many children, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren were included in that invitation. They take turns crowding the pool in the Basement, ogling the newest spaceships, and dispensing unnecessary advice to the doctors. By the end of the second day, Mon is less concerned about them smuggling Alliance secrets than getting run over in a speederbike accident.

"Could you do me a favor?" she asks Cassian, on her way to a meeting.

"Of course," he says, stiffening. "Have you briefed Dravens?"

"About what?"

"About whatever you have in mind?"

She blinks. "Not a mission! Just for the next hour or so, while I'm in secure channels."

"Oh. Certainly."

"Keep an eye on Lendis and Junorm. Raddus' granddaughters? I told their father I'd look out for them while he went hiking but he's still going."

Cassian nods, and tentatively approaches the young Calamari. Lendis is engrossed in a small holovid she'd brought along, while Junorm chatters incessantly. "Is that a blaster? A real one? Does Grandpa have one like that? What do humans eat all day?"

For an hour, Mon Mothma is able to plunge herself back into the gritty logistics of war, recapping troop numbers and supplies. By the time she's free, Raddus' son-in-law has retrieved his charges, and Cassian is exhausted. "For a grandfather, I don't know how Raddus keeps up with these two."

Mon begins to give him a backrub. "Mon Calamari aren't Wookie-old, but they get close."

"Are his parents kicking around? This should be their job."

"They retired to Coruscant a few years ago. It was his father that named those two scamps."

"Coruscant?" asks Cassian. "Isn't that a bit...urban for Calamari?"

"You'd have to ask them," Mon says, and his expression tells her exactly what he thinks of _that_ idea at the hour.

"They're not so bad," he finally yawns. "Kids."

Mon glances over at him briefly. She finds it hard to imagine where she would be if the Rebellion had not been necessary; in the Senate, still, and still uninterested in raising a family? Would she want to marry, to have a partner she could rely on in public life as well as private?

And yet she never tires of imagining that her soldiers could have been something else, in peacetime, happy. Even if they'd never met.

"The Calamari are fine," she says. "It's those tiny Drabatans you have to watch out for."

* * *

The trip to Takodana was supposed to be relatively easy. Go in, scout the known populous areas for activity, deposit signals to establish allies, get out. The only reason leadership sends someone with as much experience as Cassian is because two of their operatives already have century-long bans from Kanata's—not so much due to partisan activity as to their behavior under the influence.

Instead, Cassian comes back with his arm held together by K-2's improvised sling. Even Mon is moved to express her gratitude to the droid, and wonders how much he accomplishes on missions that she never hears about.

Of course, he gives the perfunctory debriefing, with Cassian restricted from moving. Mon notes the Imperial activity, but still has more questions than answers—has Kanata's attitude towards droids radically changed? Are invasive species disturbing tree growth? How long does it take to travel across the planet by land?

She records those in her audiolog before dropping in on Cassian, not to query him, but to see how he's recovering. To her relief, he's alert and antsy. "So, if I'd known what I was in for, I'd have billed a couple more drinks to the Alliance."

"That's why we didn't warn you," she retorts, "we don't have the budget for that."

"All right," he says, all business in a moment. "Can you get me out of here?"

"What? No."

"I'll be healthier without sharing bacteria with everyone." He waves vaguely.

"And everyone else will be healthier without your bacteria on active duty, you're staying put."

He opens his mouth to dissent, but thinks better. "Fine. Then you can stay and see that I'm fit for physical activity."

Mon rolls her eyes. "I think the med crew are busy enough without them passing out in outrage."

"Make K-2 supervise, he's useful enough."

She can't disagree, seeing Cassian alive in no small part thanks to the droid's quick action. All the same…"I think my odds of survival would decrease every time he tries to calculate them."

"Everyone's probability of survival goes down over time," Cassian explains. "That's called living."

* * *

When Cassian enters her room, Mon is deep in thought, almost to the point of not noticing him come in. "What's happening?" he asks.

"Nothing!" she blurts. "Nothing declassified, anyway."

"That bad, huh?"

"It might be good. Maybe. If we can figure out what to do about it." She rises from her chair, blinking back fatigue, and crosses the room to embrace him. For the moment, he does not bear the traces of distant worlds, and all his scars are the invisible kind.

"What can you tell me?"

"A high-ranking Imperial defector is in our custody, off-world. He's supposed to be on leave, so there are a few days before anybody will be looking for him. Obviously, we're getting all the intelligence we can from him; that's where Bail Organa is."

"Well..." Cassian trails off, no doubt trying to find the downside. "Good? Do you trust Organa with him?"

"I do," says Mon. "I think he'll be more conducive to getting information than Draven, and I have the pleasure of sorting out what to do about all this."

"Fake his death, have him go underground?"

"That's not a bad idea."

"There's a catch."

"He's not exactly a military commander. More of a scientific one."

"Even better!" Cassian lights up. "He can give us intel on their research capacities."

"All right," Mon corrects herself, "more of an _engineering_ one."

"So...we can imitate their developments? Admittedly, they have some materials advantages, but there are lots of neutral worlds that would be sympathetic to industrial development."

"That is true," said Mon. "But they also have the benefit of time, and apparently, no scruples against planetary-scale devastation."

Cassian pauses for a moment to take that in. "They _what_?"

"According to our guest, the Empire is approaching completion on a weapon that could annihilate entire planets. He only left because he didn't think he could slow them down any further."

"All right," says Cassian, exhaling slowly. "So the fleet takes it out? That doesn't work?"

"It's maneuverable, or it will be imminently. I didn't hear what level of hyperspace navigability it has, but I would err on the side of evasive."

"Okay," he says. "Then we blow up the base where he's been working on it. That should buy us some time."

Mon steps back, tensing. "It's going to be well-defended."

"This is the Empire we're talking about, what did you expect?" he snaps. "Is it just one base? How big can it be?"

"Yes. Not large, comparatively."

"Then don't light up their radars, keep stealthy."

"This is a battle plan, not an espionage reconaissance!" she yells, more loudly than she means to.

Cassian glares at her. "And you think I don't know anything about battle?"

"I think _this does not concern you_ , and I've said more than enough already. Let me think."

"Mon," he says. "I'm not trying to displace you as a tactician. Just let me stay with you."

"Not tonight, Cassian."

"You said we still have a few days. Wait for Organa to report back, he'll have an idea."

"Yes," she says quietly, as if trying to convince herself.

He remains, and she retreats into silence. "Any mission _can_ be an infiltration," he notes. "If you're deep enough."

"Cassian," she says. "If you won't leave me to think, then at least come to bed with me and let me take my mind off this for now."

"It's the extraction," he says, "that's the subtlety."

"I hope that's not your idea of a flirtatious double-entendre."

He rolls his eyes, forces a smile. "I need you to look out for K-2SO. I know he's not your best friend, but he needs a purpose around here."

She blinks. "Of course! I'm happy to assign him to your next mission, whenever Dravens triages our priorities."

"No, you won't," says Cassian grimly.

"Come again?"

"We both know what this will take. K-2 isn't an asset to getting into a technical facility, and I'd rather not waste his life."

"Nobody's wasting anything," Mon says. "We'll wait for Organa, like you said, he'll tell us how to get in."

"A base is a base. The easiest way to destroy it is from the inside. You know that."

"I'm not about to order—" Her voice breaks, and she can't meet Cassian's eyes.

"I know," he says quietly. "I know you're not, and you won't before it's too late. So let me decide."

"Cassian," she whispers. "You can't..."

"The galaxy is not a fair place. I've known that for a long time. But this, the Alliance? It can be. I'm the right man for the job."

Mon struggles to keep her composure. It is no more than they have asked of so many others; how could she look at herself if she didn't hold him, hold _herself_ , to the same standards the rest of the Rebellion faces? "It's a wet planet in the Outer Rim. Eadu."

"Sounds lovely," mutters Cassian.

"If you're there—" Mon sinks back into her chair. "I'm sure it will be."

"I'll have my radio," he says, kneeling to take her hands. "And all our codes. The Alliance's, and ours. As long as I can."

She shakes her head. "I won't be able to listen."

"Then Kay can. He'll pass along—whatever matters."

Mon grips his hand in hers. She doesn't want her private life relayed through an ex-Imperial droid, but perhaps he only needs to grasp the simple things, in the end.

"I won't let you be sorry," says Cassian, kissing her head. "There's nothing to forgive."

She musters a silent benediction, trying to find the peace of meditation for only a few moments, until he backs away and lets her mourn.


End file.
